Archangel Halley
by MikoNoNyte
Summary: Ever wonder what became of Halley? Here is one interpretation. LEMON!


_A/N_ The Archangel Intervention occurred in Archangel Russia 1918-1919, beginning even as the armistice was signed in Europe ending World War 1. Additionally, the battle at Belleau Woods was one of the two major offensives in which the United States Marines fought during WW1. Some of the people mentioned in this story are real, their role an historical truth, while some are fabrications; any errors or changes to actual history are my own doing and are not meant as a disrespect to the men and women of either side who lived and died in the conflict.

Needless to say, I do not own Shadow Hearts; that privilege belongs to Sacnoth/Nautilus.

This story is a one-time, adult entertainment piece centering on Halley. If you are not prepared for a lemon, look elsewhere. And this is dedicated to Rex, a true Halley fan, now an Angel in Heaven. 

_Archangel Halley_

_I_

Chicago Illinois on a hot summer afternoon, the clear yellow light of the sun shone down from equally blue-white skies and the concrete sidewalks along Cleveland Avenue shimmered in the heat. Wave after wave of hot air rose like watery illusion over the sidewalks and Halley, his English woolens a heavy burden in this weather, had sweat pouring down his face and chest and dripping like rain from his soaked hair. They had walked for two hours from the train station along North Union and Koudelka Iasant and Halley Plunkett found the heat oppressive.

Halley pulled the wool cap from his head and scratched; his head itched and the hair needed not only cleaning but trimming. He hadn't had a bath in a week and he stunk; not only that, his shoes had holes and his trousers were thinning. Catching sight of himself in a glass front building, Halley started: damn if he didn't look like a stinking vagrant! 

At fifteen, Halley looked more like twelve, with boyish features, bright green eyes and just a slight pout to his full lips, courtesy of his mother; his father didn't have a bright-eyed pout in his bony body. In the fall of 1914, he and his mother, Koudelka Iasant, had taken ship out of Southampton to America, in search of his father. It had never occurred to him that his mother and father had never married. His mother had merely shaken her head when asked why Edward Plunkett had left her alone and pregnant. Damn him for being so stupid and naive at the time. And damn his father too. 

Koudelka told him that he looked somewhat like his father, and Halley had scrutinized his reflection in the cabin mirror aboard the liner. The slanting light coming in from the porthole shaded him, making his upper half look grey while illuming his feet. He ran long, slender fingers through oddly cropped mouse brown hair and squinted. No, he still looked the same. How come he didn't look different, more like his dad? His dad was tall, well, taller than his mother, and adventurous. Halley was adventurous, brave and, he thought, smart and powerful. He had inherited his mother's magical abilities, more like psychic abilities really and, although he had yet to master them, he was very good. Looking at himself, Halley laughed; what an idiot, standing and admiring the view in a mirror! He pulled on his handy hat, settling it just so, and then left the cabin at a jaunty pace for a walk around the deck.

A week out of England the liner docked in New York and Halley got his first glimpse of America. His heart leapt into his throat and he was torn between staying at his mother's side and haring off to explore. The city was enormous, and full of people. As they walked down the street from the quay, Halley heard voices from every country he had ever heard of, and few he had not. Irish, French, and Italian voices mixed with the thicker accents of Eastern Europe and the Baltic's. Halley felt he could stay here and learn just by listening, but Koudelka urged him on, heading for a small, dingy hotel on the corner of Henry and Catherine. And that afternoon Koudelka left Halley to make inquiries after Edward. Halley wondered why she didn't know where he was.

"Because it's been years since I saw him, Halley. I do not know where he is living. And I am not sure where his parents reside. Just be patient. You knew we could not simply come and knock on a door to find him," Koudelka told him and Halley watched as she walked purposefully up the street toward a post office.

Halley sat down on the hotel steps, watching as a gaggle of local kids erupted from houses down the street, their enthusiastic shouts, and the subsequent bounce of a ball telling Halley they were out for fun. Maybe they'd like another he thought, and stepped into the street to join them.

Sometime after dark Koudelka returned, a net bag telling tales of food shopping. Halley, scuffed and dirty from playing with the other kids, yelled his hello and then turned toward his new friends.

"I gotta go. That's my mom; we're gonna eat now, I guess," he said and pulled his hat from his back pocket. He struck the hat against his leg a few times to shake it out and sent dirt puffing into the evening air before putting it on and running down the street toward the hotel.

"Any luck Mom," he asked after they finished their supper of soup and sandwiches.

Koudelka shook her head before turning her eyes toward her son. "No," she answered. "But we'll look again tomorrow. I have a feeling we'll find his parents here, in New York."

"How come?" Halley was leaning against the sill of the one window, his back to the outside. One shade-less lamp stood on the stand by the sagging double bed and another on the table where they had just eaten. A cockroach scurried across the hardwood floor, disappearing into the shadows under the bed.

"Something he told me when we were … well, we were both quite drunk at the time," she answered, and her lips were parted, turned up into a brief smile of remembrance. "It was the night before we took on Elaine, and Patrick was down in the lab making explosives while your father and I drank – well, too much."

Halley laughed, and Koudelka's soft chuckle joined him, her eyes crinkling in amusement.

"Sounds like you both got along so well," Halley said, hinting at his desire to hear more, but his mother turned into the shadows, the dim light hiding her features from her son's prying eyes.

"Not exactly," she said softly. "We argued too; but mostly about Patrick," she said.

"The priest," Halley commented.

"Yes. He gave his life for –" she shrugged, "I don't know, justice I suppose. His love of Elaine drove him to the priesthood and his love of her drove him to –" she looked down at her small hands, folded on her lap. "-to sacrifice everything to bring about her salvation."

Halley watched, waiting for his mother to continue speaking but she didn't, instead she rose and walked like a wraith into the washroom and closed the door.

Summer turned to fall and war broke out in Europe. Halley and Koudelka moved from the small dingy hotel room to a boarding house in Brooklyn. It meant traveling by bus and that meant money. Halley quickly revealed to his mother just how good a roustabout he truly was, as well as a gambler, turning a tidy sum into more than mere pocket change with his dice throwing. Koudelka frowned but said nothing, as it wasn't much different for her. She turned a tarot card or two at the local eatery and that brought in enough to pay for the room.

Winter saw them both wishing for better luck finding Edward and his parents. By now Koudelka worked odd jobs and searched for the Plunketts on the weekends. Finally, after considerable searching, they finally found Edward's parents. Residing in a comfortable home in Long Island, they had taken a bus as far as the faire would take them before continuing their trek on foot. Finally they approached the property; a palatial house at the end of a long curved and graveled drive, lined with poplars and a fountain at the foot of the stairs. Those stairs were of white marble and glistening mica caught the light of the sun as Halley and Koudelka approached.

Halley stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the mansion, its pristine white and red exterior an elegant backdrop for trellises of climbing roses, small pink, white, and yellow blooms exploding on the canes and a sweet fragrance coming to their noses as they went closer. Halley shook his head, wondering what kind of wealth could live here.

But well-heeled or not, neither of the elder Plunkett's seemed pleased to meet Koudelka Iasant or her bastard son. Halley stood, wide-eyed and shocked, to hear the uncharitable words coming from the elder Plunkett's mouth while Koudelka made them understand she wanted none of their money but only searched for Edward for her son's sake; to meet and know his father.

Mister Plunkett had kept them to the vestibule, the sunlight playing on the fine parquet floor and showing the silver-grey of the man's thinning hair in the bright yellow light. "I know my son had dalliances; it's to be expected of a young man," Mr. Plunkett was saying. "But if you think you can come here and demand…"

"Mr. Plunkett, I am not demanding anything," Koudelka said, her voice soft in the wide vestibule of the mansion. "I merely brought my son to see his father."

"He'll get nothing here," Mrs. Plunkett said from the hallway, her steps light as she joined them but her eyes fiercely possessive.

Koudelka sighed. "Let me say this more clearly," she began, and Halley could feel the build-up of his mother's power. "I-do-not-want-your-_filthy_-money," Koudelka's voice was like a gun, each word a bullet aimed at the two elders, who stepped back with the force of her presence. "I brought my son to see his father; I don't give a _damn_ about your wealth. You can keep it in _hell_ for all I care. I only want to find Edward."

There was insulted silence from the pair before Mr. Plunkett grudgingly nodded. He produced an address book from the telephone table and quickly wrote an address on a slip of paper.

"It's been five years since we heard from him. He may not be there," he said.

Koudelka snatched the paper and, turning on her heels, strode from the house, Halley a shadow behind her. The whole way back to their boarding house Halley thought about the Plunketts, their wealth, the opportunities they had that he would never see, and he thought about his mother's position, her power rising up in his defense.

'I may be poor, but I've got mum,' he thought. 'She's doing all this for me. Dad never –'

He stopped those thoughts as the bus came to a noisy stop at their corner. And he held those thoughts in silence until after supper when he finally confronted his mother.

"Why didn't you tell me, mum. Why keep it a big secret? Dad left you!" he accused, stomping back and forth on the carpet at the foot of the bed.

"No, he did not," Koudelka responded, and took his shoulder, directing him to sit on the bed. "He left to seek his fortune. I remained, that is all."

"But you were pregnant! He should have stayed."

Koudelka sighed. "He did not know. And by the time I realized, it was too late. I had no idea where to seek for him, and frankly Halley, I had no desire. Edward – Edward was a nice enough man, but I would not marry him. I didn't want to marry him. We… the night we spoke, before fighting Elaine, I said some things to him I would not have said had I been less drunk. I told him – I told him I wanted to be loved. To be loved Halley, not married. You are my son, my only true son; I love you. I know you love me. You are all that I need. You always have been all that I need."

"But mom!" Halley protested and Koudelka put a long fingered hand over his mouth.

"No, Halley. It's enough. We will find your father; that's what is important now. You need to meet him; he needs to know you exist. That is all." She remained silent afterward and Halley sighed, his shoulders hunched as if to weather a storm, but by the morning it was forgotten; the harsh words of the Plunketts were put behind him and he thought, he _believed_, that his father would welcome him.

By late summer they found Edward Plunkett; in Chicago Illinois working as a shipping clerk. How the adventurous had fallen! They had caught a train out of New York, spending the last of their hard earned cash to get to Chicago. They had to walk up toward the lake and the summer sun was unremittingly hot. They stood on the street outside the shipping firm, Edward having hustled them back outside once he saw who it was. And Halley watched as both surprise and shock played on h is still rugged features, for Edward was not only surprised to see Koudelka, he was shocked to see he had a kid. His wife would never understand, he told them. He had never told her of his travels all over the world, or of his adventures in England. He had dalliances with many women, some of them quite beautiful, but none ever came knocking at his door; until now. 

"Oh sure, I remember we talked; both drunk as Croesus. I told you about my exploits in school and later – and you told me about your father, and what your village did. You curled up around your bottle and I passed out! James woke us up, remember? Spouting his puerile shit about wicked whisky and pagan indecency." Edward said, one calloused hand rubbing absently at his neck. "And I remember what happened afterward, after we defeated Elaine … but I never thought – I never dreamed we had a kid. I mean, Christ Koudelka! I only slept with you that one time!"

"Edward," Koudelka answered, her voice firm. "Halley wanted to meet his father and, under the circumstances, I agreed. He's gone through so much this past four years," Koudelka looked down at the simmering concrete and shrugged. "Edward, they took me from him; against my will they locked me up, leaving Halley on his own. How could I deny him? Can you not at least speak to him?" and she indicated Halley, standing by the curb.

Halley, back from him memories of crossing the Atlantic and struggling to find his father, stood with his hat in his bony hands, and scuffed his shoes against the curb outside the manufacturing plant and silently hated; hated how itchy and dirty he was, standing here in the heat of the afternoon; hated how his father seemed more interested in his reputation and what his wife would think than in his own son; hated his father for having the balls to save his mother's life and then run away; hated his mother for letting this bastard do this to her; and hated himself for being born all over again – just like before, when his mother had been kidnapped and held prisoner in Calios Hospital. He stood there, listening to his mother's kind and gentle voice as she explained things to Edward Plunkett, and wished he could kill the man. 

Edward's voice, high pitched and grating to Halley's ears, made arguments against his further involvement, refusing to take them to his home, refusing to get involved, until finally Halley could stand it no longer and yelled, his voice hate filled, "I wish you were dead, you fucking bastard!" and ran down the street, eyes tear-blinded, ears deaf to the voices calling out for him to stop.

That was the last time Koudelka or Edward saw Halley Plunkett.

_II_

The weather, already freezing cold, had gone from bad to ungodly. The daytime highs had been cold enough in the teens and twenty's, but then the first night-time frost rolled in and the soldiers knew they were in deep danger. The soft, soggy ground that looked passable by day, quagmire that it was, became frozen tundra at night in the sub-zero temperatures. At minus twenty degrees the ground was so hard it couldn't be pierced with a pickaxe and the throbbing cold radiated up through boots and blankets. And the little medical hut in Lower Toulgas in northern Russia was no warmer inside than out. The snow and ice had built up to the sash of the small dingy windows and the ice rimed on the grimy glass, let in little of the November light. November 11, 1918. 

Halley Plunkett, found himself wondering at his own sanity even as he stuffed gauze into the wound on the soldier's belly. It was a waste of good material, he thought. The man had a wound to the gut and, despite the doctor's assurance, his life expectancy was only until sundown. If the damn sun would ever rise to go down in this God-forsaken country, Halley thought. As he worked, he thought back to his arrival here in Toulgas, in Northern Russia, and thought that this had to be Yuri's revenge!

"Archangel, the coldest place I've ever been too, including in space with Yuri! What the hell am I doing here? Why did I volunteer for this? I must be nuts!" 

Halley Plunkett, barely nineteen years old, was huddled in his bivouac, army coat wrapping his spare frame; he wore the standard issue United States Army khaki and brown and felt completely out of place in them, even though everyone else wore the same. Well, not the French or the British, but that was different. Shrugging in the cold, he warmed his hands over the open brazier set up in the center of the barracks, rubbing his hands to spread the warmth. He looked around and noted the handful of off-duty soldiers; some sleeping, some writing letters, one just reading, and all wrapped in their coats.

"Hey, English, you gonna hog all the heat?" one American asked, his accents rich with New Jersey sights and sounds. 

Halley smiled, thinking how often he had heard that over the last year. 

"How can you stand this?" Halley asked and plunged his hands inside his coat before moving back to his bunk. 

The American tossed a pair of gloves at Halley and laughed. "You put those on before you ruin those magic fingers of yours," he said.

"Louie, you're not supposed ..." Halley began but stopped when Louie waved him off.

"Just me an' the boys here and we all know your tricks, kid. 'Sides, you saved our bacon back in France. We're all grateful for that and don't think otherwise." In spite of his thick Jersey accents, Louie was tried and true Italian with dark wavy hair, bushy brows, and deep brown eyes; he had been a friend and neighbor before they shipped out with the American Expeditionary Force to France in 1917. That had been after Halley ran from his mom and Edward and after he had hopped a train out of Chicago for New York and after Guido Salvaggi.

Winter found Halley hanging with the street toughs of New Jersey. He had fled Chicago and headed east, his feet taking him as far as they would before hopping a train. He spent a few cool nights in the back of a freight car before dropping off outside Jersey where he followed his nose to the local eating-house. There he begged scraps. He paid for the next begged meals with work sweeping up and taking out trash, cleaning dishes and other assorted chores. The eatery owner, a short, rotund man in his middle forties, was of Italian ancestry and was proud of his grandparents making the trip to America, but was just as proud of the old homeland. Pictures of northern Italy and its vineyards, farms and beautiful women, adorned the dingy walls. Guido Salvaggi was also proud of his son, who was serving with the American Army. 

"In trainin' he is to go to war to protect all of us citizens," Guido would always say and point proudly at a picture of his boy, in army uniform, gracing the front window. "His momma woulda been proud too, I tell you," and a warm smile would briefly grace his aging features. 

Guido had lost his wife two years before but often spoke as if she were still among the living, showing off their wedding picture, which hung on one wall, with pride. Mrs. Salvaggi was a small woman, dark hair and eyes, but a broad smile that showed an equal love of life and love of her man. One night, after closing, Halley asked about Guido's son and his decision to go into the army. 

"What can you do there?" he asked while washing up the last load of dishes.

Guido put away the last of the supplies into the walk-in box and wiped a proud hand down the glistening counter. He took off his stained and dirty apron, tossing it into the box by the rear door, the one marked 'wash', and took a seat at the counter. 

"What can you do in the army, you ask?" he began, his eyes naturally gravitating toward the picture of his son, Frank. "I tell you, Hal, you can meet beautiful women in the army," he said and when Halley looked back, startled, Guido laughed heartily. "Not that _they're_ in the army, boy. Only perverted women serve in the army; no I mean you can meet beautiful women wherever you go, while IN the army." 

Halley shook his head and put away the drying towel before grabbing his hat and coat from the hook. 

"Seriously, Guido, what's with the military? I mean, can anybody join?" he asked.

Guido pinned Halley with his raven black eyes as the young man joined him at the pristine counter. 

"You thinkin' of enlisting, boy? You're old enough; but I think you're not big enough or strong enough maybe," the older man said, as he looked his young helper up and down like a prize heifer. "You think twice before you go haring off to war, kiddo. Yer just a boy. Now, let's go home."

They shared the same flat, Guido and Halley, Guido not wanting the company but not wanting to deny the boy shelter. That's what he said anyway, the first time he caught Halley bedding down in the back alley. Halley was grateful; he liked the older man, and he liked the bed, all lumps and poking-out stuffing and missing-buttons and springs popping out that it was.

The summer came with news of the European war; the Russian offensive was successful in knocking out the Austrians from the war, while the battle, known at the Somme began. The news was dire, but nobody seemed to mind or to care; it was Europe's war after all. That summer Halley met Louie and the rest of the 5th Street gang, taking in his first baseball game with his new friends. The five of them, Halley, Louie and three friends, piled into the bus to Harrison to watch the Newark Peppers take on the Buffalo Blues, Halley trying to understand the importance of this game to his friends. Once they arrived they sat in the bleachers, and Halley hounded Louie with questions until finally Louie, taking Halley's cap from his head, swatted him with it.

"Will you shut the hell up, Hal? Geez you don't need to know all that, just watch the damn game!" 

Halley, grinning affably, grabbed back his hat and stuffed it on his head. "Silly Americans and their games," he muttered which earned him the hotdog and beer run. And after the Peppers beat the Blues, the bus ride home was punctuated with punched shoulders, snapped suspenders and good-natured rowdiness. Halley felt at home with these other boys, especially Louie, who lived in the neighboring brownstone. Handsomely Italian, Louie had all the girls on the block swooning and a few from across the water in New York as well. Halley and the other boys had to content themselves with Louie's castoffs. 

The summer months moved slowly, Halley worked for Guido, or took in an occasional ball game with the guys, or discovered how to bat in a sandlot game in the park down the street. And after work, Halley listened to Guido's stories of his son and the tales he told with pride in his voice and a gleam in his eyes, and made his own private wish, and that wish led him to hell.

In late fall, the paper on the ides of November 1915, brought tears to Halley's usually bright eyes. He finished his nightly cleaning and picked up the paper, reading the dire news from Europe. The British Expeditionary Force had concluded, finally, the Battle at the Somme, and the paper reported deaths estimated at over 60,000 British soldiers and thousands more French. Halley could not believe it. He turned to Guido and showed him the paper.

"Frank's going to war against these bastards, isn't he? The president of this country is going to declare war, isn't he?" Halley said, the paper shaking in his trembling fists. Guido shrugged.

"So the rumors say, kid, what with the Lusitania and all. But it ain't happened yet. What do you want to do?" Guido asked solemnly as he took the paper from Halley and sat him down at the counter. He poured a mug of thick black coffee and shoved it into Halley's fist. "Here, drink this."

"I want to kill 'em. I want to kill the bastards that started this war," Halley said through gritted teeth.

"Now, that's a mite tough to do, Hal. There's a lot of men fightin' and dyin' over there. It's their war. What you wanna get involved in it for?"

Halley looked down at the dark liquid in the cup, his work roughened hands large, large enough to circle round the thick ceramic mug. 'We fought to give people a chance,' he thought. 'We fought to keep hope alive for the little guys, right?' he asked himself. 'Why else did Yuri and Alice risk everything to take down Simon and that alien god? Why did I? Not so we can get killed fighting in some stupid damned war!'

Halley's fists gripped the thick mug, his knuckles turning white and he felt his own power awakening after months of sleep. He felt the gut-grinding hatred warming his blood, making his heart pound hard and the blood burn and course through his veins like fire. On the counter, small items began to tremble, and across the room a table skittered across the floor.

"What the-? Halley, that you?" Guido asked, suddenly aware that his once peaceful café was now rattling as Halley trembled.

A row of stools, stacked neatly against one wall, shook and tumbled to the floor, their legs pointing in all directions. In the kitchen, the pot caddy began swinging on its ceiling hook, the pots clanging and banging as if some invisible child was smacking each one in turn. 

"Halley."

The coffee pot on the kitchen stove rattled, traveling off its trivet and then crashing down to the hard floor, shattering and sending steaming remnants of coffee across the floor while the drawers with silverware and cutlery began to rattle, edging their way out of the cabinets to suddenly crash to the floor.

"Halley, stop it."

The café floor rumbled under Guido's feet, and the chairs and tables in the center began walking across the floor. Suddenly the furniture rose into the air, tables, chairs, stools, flying around the room on ghostly hands; cutlery and utensils joined the gyrating dance, spinning dangerously before the entire ensemble flung itself at the front window, crashing to the outside and sending shards of glass pummeling into the street along with shattered furniture.

"God damn it, Halley," Guido breathed.

"I gotta go, Guido. I gotta go there," Halley said softly, the remains of his now shattered mug lying in his bleeding hands, coffee running down the counter and dripping like black blood onto the floor.

"Yeah, kid. I think you do," Guido said, looking at the wreck of his once pristine establishment. "What a mess."

_III_

Packing the wound, Halley placed tape across it and then flicked the blanket, a thin grey army issue, over the wounded man.

"Try to get some rest, Harry," he said. The soldier, nearly unconscious from pain, did not respond. The room was far too cold for these men, and with the drop in temperatures to the minus twenty's last night, they had lost three men; three men that would not go home to wives, children or lovers; a British and two Americans. Halley ground his teeth as he moved on to the next man.

The machine gun fire had ceased half an hour ago, and Halley instinctively knew that to be a precursor. Captain Boyd and his men had withdrawn yesterday, leaving the doctor and the wounded men in Lower Toulgas while he tried to rally the troops in Upper Toulgas against the Bolshevik troops. Boyd had no idea there were this many soldiers at hand; he had no idea that he was cut off, surrounded by enemies well familiar with the Russian winter and the terrain, and no idea how to get his men home. Halley wondered as well, wishing he hadn't volunteered for this little tea party. Wishing he had stayed in America. Wishing … ah hell, what did wishing ever get me, he wondered.

Wishing had gotten him on a boat to the States. He and his mother Koudelka boarded the steamship in Southampton that late fall in 1914 to waives and hugs and furtive kisses of, not only the London Rats, but Yuri and Alice. The others had already left, heading who-knew-where, and he and his mom were heading for adventure; heading for America and his father. Edward J. Plunkett. Just the name gave him gooseflesh. The man who had saved his mother; strong and adventurous, the man whom his mother had fallen in love with, and then the two of them, along with that crazy priest, had destroyed the monstrous Elaine and cleared Nemeton Monastery of its evil. Well, in his mind anyway. He knew that wasn't the truth; he knew the evils of that horrid place lived on, even today. But he liked to think of his mother as a heroine, and his father… Why the hell hadn't he stayed? Why had he left his mother behind in England? 

And then had come the reality of meeting his damned father. Halley should have known he was illegitimate, but it had never occurred to him. His mother had lavished him with attention and affection when he was a baby; he never thought of the lack of his father until he attended his first days in public school. Then he had known he was missing a vital part of his life, but he accepted it since he could do nothing else and he also learned to take each day as it came. And then he learned not to trust anyone or anything when his mother was kidnapped and taken to Calios Hospital and he learned he had to stand on his own two feet. That was when he brought Joshua, Chris, and Sharon into his life. They too had been abandoned, or left orphaned by parents and uncaring society; oddly enough, the same society that had bred his father, Edward, and had imprisoned his mother; or so said Koudelka.

However, when his mother had agreed to go to America, he had joyfully accepted that too without thought for the consequences. How had he missed the subtle movements his mother had made? How had he missed his own questions, left unanswered? He had no father now, nor mother, abandoning them in Chicago that summer day three years ago. So much had happened since then. So much tragedy, so many injured, and so much death.

His own powers, inherited from his mother, had blossomed while he fought along side Yuri and the others. The gifts that allowed him to fight and help defeat both Albert Simon and then the alien god, were as nothing in this damned war. So many had died, and so many more would die before this was finally over. And what tore at his heart, what ripped through his anger and his own hostility were the injured. The ones he could help and sadly, the ones he could not.

What are we fighting for, he wondered. Freedom... life, love? Who the hell knew! At least with Yuri we knew we were fighting a just cause. But here, in Lower Toulgas … what the fuck are we _doing_ here! His thoughts rambled as he checked the next soldier, and then paused when he heard the crunch of snow outside.

"Doctor, someone's coming," he said and turned just as gunshots flared into the room, bullets spattering along the far wall and leaving deep pockmarks to show their passage. The door burst open, crashing against the retaining wall and Russian soldiers entered, their guns pointed at everyone and everything. A dozen men dressed in the Bolshevik army colors thundered into the small hut and pressed guns and bayonets to the throats of injured and helpers alike. Halley found himself pressed back against a cold wall as a handful of soldiers detached themselves and began ransacking the room. Boxes of medical supplies were torn open, their contents scattered along the floor; a precious bottle of penicillin was smashed and he heard the doctor moan at the waste.

"Please, please stop. No, you don't know what you're doing," the doctor cried and offered slight resistance before a soldier gave him a blow with the butt of his rifle and then shot him.

"No!" Halley yelled and another gun butt met his own head but he shook off the pain and, landing on his knees, crawled over to the wounded doctor. "John, John! Hang on. I'll help you," he said quickly, hands already pulling off the bloody surgical coat.

"No – no; it's too late. Save the others; save your strength for them," the doctor said, clutching his gut.

"I- we need you, Doctor. _They _need you."

Halley ignored the doctor's feeble protests, pulling off the coat and exposing the blossom of blood beneath. He placed his hand on the wound, covered it with his palm and concentrated. He had watched Alice do this very action more than a dozen times when Yuri or one of the others had been severely injured, and he pictured her in his mind now, remembering how she worked her healing magicks. She would place her small, delicately boned hand over the wound, barely touching, and summon her healing power; a white energy would gather in her palm and spread out over the wound, trickling down like snowflakes. This was followed by a burst of healing that would not only totally heal the wound but give the recipient strength to continue. 

Halley felt it in his palm first; a tingling not unlike what he felt when Alice had healed him. His own healing skills were not dissimilar, only more dramatic being airborne magicks; he closed his eyes a moment, centering his will on the healing and the tingle became a burn, warming his hand. It felt like the skin was peeling back from his bones when a sudden burst of energy left his fingers and moved to the recumbent doctor, bathing him in brilliant green and yellow energies. Halley could see it in his mind and when he opened his eyes, he saw it. A little smile curled the corner of his mouth and he pushed a little harder, offering up more of his precious life-force for the doctor's recovery. Beneath his hand the wound closed, the precious blood drying up and the skin puckering into pink newness. 

"You'll live now John, just rest please," Halley said quietly, then turned toward the watching Russian soldiers. "No thanks to your stupid actions," he growled at them in his broken Russian. The soldier standing close to him offered the butt of his rifle to Halley's chin, threatening but not delivering. They had all seen him heal the man; this one was a magic user; best leave him to the commander. 

The doctor struggled to sit up, pulling his bloody coat back on and turning both a grateful and fearful gaze onto his young assistant. He knew Halley had abilities normal men did not; he had witnessed battlefield healings in France, in the Battle of Belleau Wood, and he had seen other magicks as well. That was not what worried him. Halley had a temper and the Russians did as well. If this escalated, they would all die horribly. He needed to establish a perimeter, a peace zone. 

"Halley, ask them to let you work on the other wounded. Hell, ask if they have any wounded that you can help."

Halley looked startled. Help the enemy, he thought? But then a commotion at the small entranceway stopped him from doing even that.

Melochofski, the Russian Commander, was a bear of a man, standing well over six feet tall and broad at the shoulders; he was dressed in the standard uniform of the Bolshevik army but with a black fur cap and black fur coat. His voice was deep and powerful and when he spoke, no one in the tiny room thought anything but that HE was the man in charge. He entered the little field hospital, his openly angry and hostile gaze capturing each man in the room, eyeing the shivering injured soldiers and immediately bellowed an order in Russian.

Halley grit his teeth, listening carefully to the man's orders. He turned to the doctor, and translated:

"He's ordered us all killed," he said quietly.

"God have mercy," the doctor said. He looked at his patients lying on thin pallets and at the Russian soldiers and noted their fatigue. Perhaps they were just as tired as he and his men. "Halley, break out the rations; get the commander a meal; the best we've got. Try to placate him."

Halley nodded and, showing his empty hands to the Russian soldiers, approached the stores and pulled open a case. One soldier followed, his gun prodding Halley in the ribs, but then pulled back when the young man handed him a box of field rations, indicating he should take it and then placed a packet of cheese and some tinned meat on a plate. He grabbed a handful of the nearly stale crackers they were using instead of bread and waived over to Francois to find the bottle of rum the English Commander, Boyd, had left behind. All this he took to Melochofski and placed on a small surgical table.

"You, eat this, yes?" Halley asked in broken Russian, not for the first time kicking himself for not listening closer when Yuri had spoken the god-forsaken tongue. The Bolshevik leader looked down at the offering and a little smile cracked the bulldog face; he sat on a small chair, his very bulk creaking the wood of the seat, and began to eat. He was just making head-way into the first mug of rum when a disturbance at the cabin door brought Halley's attention. A woman of striking appearance entered and surveyed the small log hut; she was dressed much like the commander in a black fur coat, but she had deeply beautiful brown eyes and a small twist of light brown hair sticking out of her hat. On a couple of torn up beds and a pallet lie the wounded soldiers – six men covered in bandages and blood. Next to them, was the doctor, his white coat spattered with blood, and next to him …?

"Who are you?" she demanded of Halley. 

Halley tilted his head and offered up his once boyish smile; it had no effect on the woman. "I am Private Halley; I help here," he said slowly, his Russian pronunciation less than adequate.

"Ah, you are the doctor's helper, yes?" the woman asked further. "Good, continue. And help our men who are injured as well," she indicated a small group of soldiers leaning against the doorjamb.

Halley realized she wanted him to help and sighed. "We don't have a lot of supplies. And your men destroyed so much," he said in English without thinking.

"Ah, English," she said with a grin. "I know English; small. You fix soldiers. I keep from getting killed, yes? You prisoners," she offered in broken and heavily accented English, the last with a gloved finger pointing at Halley.

"All right," Halley said and reached for the small bandage box. "I'll look them over." Well the doctor got his wish, Halley thought, as he made his rounds, offering up bandages and healing to the soldiers standing like belligerent bears in the small cabin. One of them had closed the door, blocking the cold and snow from entering once more, but the inside temperature was now frigid, their own breaths fogging before them. 

Halley glanced aside once to check on the commander and saw the woman standing behind him, her hands working at sore muscles as she bent closer, her mouth at his ear. He wore a pleased expression, and the hardness was momentarily replaced in his brown eyes. Halley wondered briefly at the power of women before turning back to another injured soldier.

Halley continued ministering to the injured, both his and the Russians until the last man had been succored. He was turning back to the doctor when he noticed that the Bolshevik commander was standing, staring at him. With one eyebrow cocked, Halley stared back, waiting for the Russian to say something. Instead the big man gestured and growled something to his men before turning toward the door. Halley sighed and took the few remaining steps across the floor to stand next to the doctor. The Bolshevik woman watched as the commander left, then turned toward Halley.

"You stay here," she said thickly, pointing at the floor before bunching her fist. "You leave, you dead, understanding?"

Halley nodded. "Yes. But what --?"

"You minding here. You men," and she turned to the remaining Russian soldiers, "You guard these men; if you kill them, I will kill you, understand?" she said, switching to Russian. There were nodded understandings then she strode from the hut. 

Halley remained frozen for a moment before turning to the doctor. "I think something must be up. They left awfully fast," he said quietly. Doctor Wilson nodded. 

"You help me, Hal, but you keep your ears and eyes open, understand?" the doctor ordered quietly. "You may be our only hope if something happens."

Halley blinked but said nothing, instead turning his energies to picking up and moving aside the debris from the ransacking. Barely an hour had gone by since the arrival of the Russians into the small hut and Halley was suddenly getting a tense feeling in his gut, as if something were moving outside. He finished sweeping up the broken medicine bottles and was just taking up the remaining linens when he heard it: a roar like a god descending to earth, an explosion of sound so loud and so intense than he winced even before he fell to the floor. Another explosion of sound followed immediately afterward as, whatever had caused the noise in the first place, impacted the ground nearby. The small medical building shuddered and rocked, dust floating down from the whitewashed ceiling; Halley and the doctor were on the floor, their arms covering their heads as heavy caliber shells exploded into the frozen earth less than a thousand yards away.

"It must be the Canadians," Doctor Wilson yelled to Halley. "They've managed to move the big guns; they'll be giving the Russkis what for now," he said even as another explosion deafened him.

Halley acknowledged the comment with a nod, turning his head slightly to evaluate the remaining soldiers. Three wounded Russians were lying on pallets across the room; he knew they would not interfere. The other four were stationed two at the door and two near the supply door. One was walking toward a small window across the room. Halley made his move, jumping up and sprinting across the small space, he leapt onto the soldier's back, grabbing him around the neck and giving a quick twist. The soldier was startled but turned with the assault and Halley was unable to break his neck. With a grunt the soldier brushed off the smaller man. Across the room the two by the door raised their rifles, aiming at Halley, who was now rolling to his feet. 

"I hate you," he growled, forcing his anger to rapidly focus his power. "I hate you, I hate you!" his growl became a shout and suddenly the room with filled with howling wind; the soldier in front of him sailed up off his feet and into the ceiling, hitting it with a satisfying thud and a bloody splat before falling dead to the floor. Halley turned on one knee and faced the remaining soldiers, his concentration still on his power. 

"I hate you, hate you!" he continued to scream at them, his power continuing to manifest, growing and growling into a cyclone of wind that picked up the soldiers and smashed them into the wall, the cracks as their skulls impacted audible above the noise of Halley's wind. When the winds died, Halley was kneeling, his head down.

"Hal, you all right?" the doctor asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. 'Cept I just killed a bunch of men in cold blood." He said nothing more, merely walking to the door and pulling it open. He stepped outside and retched into the frozen snow.

The bombardment continued whether Halley was ill or not, the sound leaving the injured swooning and the uninjured numb. The Canadian's had indeed managed to turn their big guns to face both north and south and were pounding the Russian emplacements, showing the Russians that they were not to be underestimated. The Russians had surprised the allied forces with their seemingly impossible crossing of the swampy forests and arriving early on the morning of November 11, 1918. They had subsequently cut the little town of Toulgas in half, with the allies to the north and the Russians to the south and, with little doubt from the repeated weapons fire, surrounding the entire town. Captain Boyd found himself out manned and out gunned to the north, while Doctor Wilson and his few assistants had been left at the medical hut, little knowing that the Bolshevik forces were on their doorstep. 

Halley wiped his mouth and looked up into the snowy mounds that was Lower Toulgas and cringed as yet another volley pounded into the soldiers beyond the wrecked homes to his left. He was turning back in when he spotted the movement out in the snow and saw the Russian woman returning, dragging something large behind her. Halley didn't think, he merely ran at a crouch through the snow to the struggling woman, lifting the nether half of her burden and together they ran across the snow to the hut.

Once safely inside, the guns suddenly stopped, and the woman pulled the great coat from her burden, revealing Commander Melochofski. He had been wounded, shrapnel the size of Halley's fist was in his chest and with each beat of his heart blood bubbled out, slicking the already blood-soaked uniform. Looking closer Halley poked a finger at the wound, testing it but the damage was severe. He looked up at the woman, a worried frown on his young face.

"I can't save him," he said. "It's too deep; too much damage. And he's lost too much blood."

The woman nodded once and pulled Melochofski onto her lap, settling him onto her, touching his face with her fingers.

"Leave me," she said and Halley stood and closed the exterior door before joining the doctor.

"He's hurt bad," Halley told the doctor.

"What will happen now?" the doctor asked.

Halley shrugged. "The big guns have stopped, obviously. I think the Canadians have sent a message; and I think the Commander got it. But whether the Russians will pull back...? I don't know. But I don't think we're safe here. I don't know what to tell you, Doctor."

"We can't move the wounded. We don't have weapons, or support. We need someone from Boyd or even Lieutenant Dennis; did you see the Americans when you were out?"

Halley shook his head. "No, but it's white out there; and the guns were still going off and I had other things on my mind. Look, if you think I should, I can go for support. I might be able to reach Boyd in Upper Toulgas, help him send back support. But what about the woman? She's Bolshevik – Soviet. She saved our bacon, but I don't know if we can trust her."

Doctor Wilson looked at the grieving woman, a corpse lying across her lap, her hands holding the dead man's hands, and sighed. 

"I don't know. You talk to her. Maybe she'll back down. Maybe you'll have to kill her."

"I won't kill a woman!" Halley growled. "Damn, I've killed too many men in this fucking war as it is!" He shook his head to clear it of the sudden anger he felt building up, threatening to burst his control. "I'll talk to her."

Halley approached the Russian woman and knelt in front of her; he reached across to check Melochofski's pulse but she shook her head. 

"He is gone," she said quietly, a touch of sadness tingeing her voice.

"I'm sorry," Halley offered but the woman waved it off with a flick of one hand. 

"Is not you; he was my … um, lover," she said and sighed.

"Look…" Halley sighed. "I don't even know your name," he said.

"Petrovna. Ileana Petrovna."

Halley nodded. "Look Miss Petrovna, we need help here; if your men come back, they'll kill us. The wounded, the ill, they need to be evacuated. I'll need help for that and I'm going to get it. But I either have to trust you or kill you."

The young woman looked around the small cabin, her russet brown eyes pausing at the dead Russian soldiers piled along one wall, their corpses evincing a violent death.

"Your work?" she asked. Halley nodded. "You are soldier; I am soldier. We work together maybe?"

Halley pursed his lips, wondering where she was going with this.

"To my own lines I want to go," she said. "You want your lines. We go together, get there together." She paused and reaching down, closed Melochofski's eyes. "We be ransom for each, our lines are mixed. Understand?"

Halley nodded. "All right. But if you betray me, Petrovna," and his green eyes held a glint like steel, "I _will_ kill you."

The woman smiled slightly, and slid the lifeless body from her lap. 

"And I will you."

_IV_

After half an hour of preparation, the pair left the field hospital at a low crouch. Petrovna knew where her patrol was stationed and Halley knew that Boyd had to be across the Dvina River, which cut Toulgas in half. They set out at a fast run, skirting the field hospital and then skipping quickly to the lea wall of a blown out building across the street. Ahead, lay a mile of streets and derelict and destroyed buildings leading to the bridge and Upper Toulgas where Captain Boyd and his Infantrymen were located. To the right of the bridge and beyond the remains of the Lower Toulgas lie the Russians. And patrolling the river were the Russian gunboats. 

Slowly they made their way from shelter to shelter, each pile of snow offering a chance to wait and watch; each blown out building offering equally a chance to be shot by patrols. Voices were carrying in the silence of the snowbound town, and even though they were not close, Halley knew they were Russian. He glanced back at Petrovna, but she made no move to intercept the speakers, merely raising an eyebrow and indicating he should continue on. Halley nodded silently and gestured toward the river, his chosen direction.

Just before the river Halley and Petrovna stopped, stretching out along the snowy debris and looking out across the river. In the wan light of late afternoon, Halley could see that the bridge had been blown, and only a few girders were left to cross the span of the Dvina River. Below he saw patrol boats, dark hulled, heavily armed, and bristling with Russian soldiers. Halley snorted.

"Just great." He looked up at Petrovna but she was watching the patrol boat maneuver under the bridge, making its way upriver. She poked Halley's arm and pointed.

"Patrols, and army," she said in English. "Over Dvina you go; your army."

Halley nodded. "You go first; I'll wait for the patrol to move on. And Petrovna," he reached out a gloved hand and offered it to the woman. "Thanks."

"We meet again, yes? Not with guns but Vodka," she said, a smile breaking out and bringing sunshine to her face. Halley looked at this Russian woman and suddenly understood what Commander Melochofski had seen in her. 

"Yes. Good luck, Petrovna," he said when their handclasp ended. Halley watched as Petrovna scuttled down the snowy embankment, moving at a half crouch along the shoreline. He continued to watch her until she vanished into the shadows beneath the broken span, and waited. A few minutes later, he heard voices calling out in Russian and the sound of the boat's engine as it powered around. A minute after that he heard the scrap of the hull against the shore and knew that Petrovna was aboard the patrol boat and headed for her lines. Halley settled down into the snow bank, watching and listening, and waiting for dark. 

He didn't have long to wait as the overcast and snow filled sky darkened quickly in the northern climes. With one last look around, Halley rolled over the crest of the embankment and slid down the side. About half way down he pushed his booted feet into the snow and ground his heels into the frozen soil beneath to stop his descent. Then, in a half crouch, he began the trek to the bridge; if he could make the nearside girders, he thought he might be able to climb up and use them to cross the river. It all depended on stealth and luck as the patrol boats were still on the river.

Both British and Russian guns had pounded the Svina Bridge, reducing it to a skeleton of its once expansive self. By demolishing it, both sides prevented the other from sending tanks or heavily armored vehicles across to opposing lines. And by demolishing it they prevented help from getting to the injured in Lower Toulgas. Halley silently counted each step up from the embankment, each handhold he found in the first stone piles that hadn't been rendered to fractured dust became a litany, a silent prayer for safety and luck. By the time he reached the top, sweat was pouring from him in hot rivulets, running down inside his coat and soaking his thermals. He shook his head to clear it, laid down flat along the top girder, and looked around.

Behind him lay Lower Toulgas in snow packed and frozen darkness, with the small medical facility and the Russian patrols. To his right along the bank were patrols, their brief lights giving away their positions. There were too many of them for Halley's comfort. He scanned the dark beyond the river but could not make out any movement on the British side; whatever movements Boyd and his infantry were making they were invisible; or not there at all. That thought did not comfort Halley at all. With a swallowed prayer, he began to inch his way across the span to the first break in the girder. He would have to stand and jump to the next support but it was little more than eight feet distance, he could do that easily. 

With a steadying breath, Halley stood and, crouching low, scuttled to the end of the girder, his eyes scanning the dark length ahead. When he was six feet from the end he stood and ran full out, his feet nearly lifting off from the metal beneath him until he reached the break and leapt, his body flying across the distance and landed lightly on the next girder. His boots skidded slightly on the icy metal but then dug in and he crouched low again to proceed along the metal brace. Below, in the river, he could hear the putter of the patrol boat and he turned sharp eyes to try to catch it's reflection in the water. A dark shadow moved over the surface two hundred yards up river and Halley threw himself to his belly, hugging the girder. Long minutes ticked by while the boat chugged its way down river, slowly coming under the derelict bridge and passing on to Halley's left. With breath held, Halley watched it proceed, each chug of its engine taking it out of gun range. Just as the boat pulled out of range, the sound of shooting began.

A spatter of machine gun fire peppered along the bank and Halley heard the patrol boat's engine gun as it suddenly turned and headed back toward the bridge. To his rear, he heard more gunfire and the rumble of a tank as it crunched its lumber-some way through the frozen snow. Repeated gunfire echoed in the dark behind him and then more weapons fire began ahead of him, across the river in Upper Toulgas. Halley gripped the girder with his knees and covered his head with his arms and gloved hands as the Canadians once more opened fire, their heavy artillery sweeping the darkness with deadly abandon. Beneath him, the patrol boat swung around and the soldiers aimed their 6-inch shells at the darkness of Upper Toulgas; and their fire was quickly joined by louder and larger artillery to Halley's rear. 

The night sky was suddenly brightened by huge explosions as barrels of explosives were suddenly ignited and the boom of the Canadian's cannons and Boyd's artillery added to the cacophony of sound. The sudden pop of more machine guns joined the deafening bombardment and explosive shrapnel shells exploded into the Russian forces across the river and those who had been approaching from the north. Halley buried his head in the snow of the girder and cringed with the noise. It was just like before; just like last summer in France. Only then, he could do something.

Halley's regiment, the 3rd Division of the American Army, trundled into Chateau-Thierry at three in the morning. Behind the Allied lines, Halley's division of the American Expeditionary Force was looked to support and aid the British and French forces. Earlier in May, the 28th Regiment of the First Division of Marines, had been shipped to Cantigny and had already fought long and hard against the Germans, finally pushing them back and taking the small hamlet as a part of the British offensive of Aisne. The 3rd, with Halley, had come up the dirt and mud crusted road from Paris, along the way, battered and derelict vehicles were abandoned on the road out of Paris, and streams of ragged soldiers were making their way south out of Ypres, but Halley paid them no mind. They wore the British uniform of the 36th Ulsters, and he felt pride for their service and sadness for their loss, but his mind was set on Belleau Woods. He had attended the briefing the night before for the medical staff; his own commander, Captain Cassidy had spoken highly of the young Englishman's skills. Halley would work with a dozen men as front line soldiers and medical relief, and Halley looked forward to it; he wanted to kill the Germans.

That first day was grinding routine with the only joy being word from Cantigny of the American Marine's victory that late May. Word had yet to be disseminated on the condition of the forces at Chateau-Thierry, whether the Germans had moved forward or been pushed back by the fighting of the last two days. So Halley and his buddy Adam had unpacked the medical gear and stowed it in the packs they would take into the front lines later that day. Adam was a bundle of nerves, his fingers fluttering from one latch to another before Halley finally swatted him with his cap.

"Knock it off, will ya? You're givin' _me_ nerves," he said and finished tightening the cinch before looking up to check the other's progress. "Hey, Bill. Where'd you put the bottled stuff?"

Private Bill Stearns pointed at a red bag marked with a white cross. "Standard issue."

Halley looked at the eyesore and grunted. "Not with me it ain't," he said and, grabbing a small brown bag, proceeded to remove the ampoules of medication and put them into the sack. "Red makes me nervous," he said to his group. If I can see it, _they_ can see it. Mom didn't sew a target on my back."

The men nodded and finished their packing. 

Later that day, as the sun was setting once more, Halley and his men moved out, threading their way through the trenches to join the French Tenth Colonial Division at the far tip of the German lines, some fifty miles south west of Paris. The trenches were battered and muddy and many of the soldiers that Halley and his men passed were in horrible condition, the deprivations of the trench lines, the constant gunfire mixed with rainy nights followed by the punishing heat of day, all was leading to cases of shell shock, dysentery, and the dreaded influenza. Halley felt a stitch in his chest when he saw so many sick soldiers still manning their posts, but his job was ahead at the front. The nurses, those volunteers from the American Red Cross would be coming through in the next couple of days; they would render help. For now, Halley simply turned his eyes away and walked on.

On the 6th of June, the sun came up in a hazy sky, the early morning moisture rising like a fog out of the trenches and masking the ground in mist. As the sun rose higher the summer warmth began to burn through the mist, wave after wave of insects rising with the steam and the hell that was trench life continued. At a little after seven in the morning the French and American forces moved out, the first wave of soldiers flooding over the trench lines and across an open wheat field. Unknown to them, the Germans were waiting. Immediately they opened fire with machine guns, sweeping the field with their fire, mowing down the soldiers like grain and seeding the soil with their blood. 

Halley and Adam found themselves in the middle of the troop, the sudden machine gun fire putting both face to the dirt as they belly crawled across the field. Bodies blocked their path and they crawled over the corpses, or used them for temporary shelter from the gunfire. Finally, Halley looked up to see the woods looming ahead and a handful of marines running into the thin forest, machine guns rattling death as they did so. Just to his right Halley spotted Major Harbord, the Marine Corp's commander as he was directing the push to the south. Ahead lie Belleau Wood and the rest of the German army; Halley signed to Adam that they should run for it.

The array of corpses and blood that greeted Halley at the verge of the woods would forever stain his memory. A lake of blood was spilled out on the brown earth, mixing with the soil and becoming sludge of red ooze. Bruised and shattered bodies lie like broken dolls, their arms flung out in surprise as their strings were cut, and their faces set in various states of surprise, fear and desolation. Ultimately, they all had the same eyes: glassy orbs frozen open. Just beyond the verge Halley stopped for breath, his stomach roiling and threatening to disgorge the minimal breakfast he'd eaten an hour ago. Behind him, Adam was watering the trees, his face pale, his hands shaking and Halley shook his head.

"Come on, Adam, no time for that," he whispered and proceeded into the forest. Ahead he heard the volley of fire from the Marine's guns and the rapid chatter of machine guns continuing to mow through the Americans and Halley pushed ahead to offer aid to those who might still be alive.

The morning sun was now midway into a grey and white sky, clouds and smoke obscuring the sun in a haze that made everything look blurry and fuzzy around the edges. Halley and Adam had caught up with their division and began patching where they could, offering help where they could, and defending when need be. Both were carrying standard rifles and one or the other would pick up the gun and fire at approaching soldiers or at shadows in the woods. Whether they actually hit anything was dubious. And by a little after noon they were down to their last bullets and medications. Halley looked around and pointed toward a group of Marines that had settled in behind a pile of grassy debris and were firing into the shadows beneath the woods. Beyond Halley could make out the stealthy movements of approaching Germans. 

"Come on Adam, time to move ahead; try to get to those Marines. We can help them and maybe get some more ammo."

Adam nodded and, at a low crouch, proceeded through the woods to the hidden Marines. Halley finished his ministrations and looked down at the young lieutenant whose wound he had just stitched.

"Try to stay quiet. Do you have your handgun?" And when the soldier nodded, "Okay, if they come close, you know what to do. I'll send word on along that you're here."

The young man nodded. "Who do I thank, English?" he said. 

Halley grinned. "Plunkett - Private Plunkett."

"Nice to meet you Plunkett. I'm Louie. New Jersey."

"Yeah, I figured that was you," Halley said. "This pays you back for summer baseball Louie." 

The young lieutenant squinted at Halley and grinned with recognition. "Figures you'd be here to save my hash, Hal. I mean it; thanks."

Halley nodded. "You stay put; I gotta get up to the lines."

Halley made his way up to the half dozen marines lying flat on the grass behind the small mound. He crawled on his belly the last few yards, coming in a roll next to Adam. The officer, Lieutenant Welker, nodded him in and flicked a finger at the approaching enemy.

"Got your weapons? Could use some help."

Halley shook his head. "Got weapons, but no ammo. We're tapped out of meds too. You get shot …"

"Yeah. Well there's more of them comin'," one solder said, his voice husky in the grass. The others looked and saw that the enemy had multiplied. 

"Damn, where's the captain?" 

Halley shook his head. "I didn't see him. Could be wounded; could be dead. Day one and we're dying here," he added. "You thinking of finding the Major? Last I saw he was headed south-east. Maybe he made it."

The lieutenant shook his head. "Radio got busted. But before it did I heard regroup orders. We need to find the captain or join the main group to the south."

Halley looked at the approaching Germans and sighed. "No way in hell you'll make it. And we can't leave the wounded."

"Then what do you suggest, _Private_," Welker asked, a frown creasing his grimy face even as he checked the German's location. "We don't have time for pussy-footing around."

Halley looked at the six marines, Adam and the approaching troop of nearly twenty Germans, then back at the sea of dead and the few wounded. "Tell you what, Lieutenant. You get the wounded out, you get back to the trench lines, and I'll get your ass there in one piece, all right?"

Welker looked at the intense expression of the young private. What could he possibly do he wondered. "You got a howitzer in your pants, private?" he asked.

"Not my pants, lieutenant; my hands. You leave it to me," and Halley's face broke out into a feral grin. "I've got a little surprise for those damn Germans. Trust me; you just get the wounded out of here."

Lieutenant Welker counted the seconds as he considered the alternatives, and then signaled the others to break and head back. 

"Grab the wounded, drag 'em if ya hafta," he said and then turned to Halley. "You give 'em hell kid. We'll be watching."

Halley waited until the marines had pulled back, one stopping to pick up Louis and the others grabbing a man here and there. The Germans saw the retreat and their voices raised as they were suddenly in pursuit of retreating soldiers. Halley waited in the grass, his hands in front of his face, fingers curled around and touching, tip to tip. He needed his strongest magic, the attacks he had learned while fighting with Yuri and Alice. Earth Magic, strong magic, formed with the hands of god, he thought, filling each crevice and crag with dirt and soil and rocks and boulders and living breathing earth. He pictured it fully, grabbing at the image as he felt his power beginning to build, starting as a tingling in his gut before moving upwards into his chest. Wind magic, force magic, formed with the mind of god, he thought, moving and scouring the land and sea with the very breath that moved in the formation of the world; the noise of life crashing into and around all things, screeching in the hollows, echoing down canyons and howling in the night over the mountains. He pictured this fully too, grasping it with his mind as the power moved from his guts and into his chest, threatening to tear him apart with the pressure. Carefully he rose to his knees, still huddling around his curved fingers, sill focusing on his hands as the force of the wind and the earth began to spin and gyrate within his curled fingers and Halley took one last breath before suddenly jumping up, shouting and opening his hands to let loose the power.

Behind him the soldiers heard his shout and Welker turned in time to see the young Private rise on a funnel of air, the wind appearing to rise from the very ground itself. Suddenly there was a howling, screaming sound followed by a crashing and grinding that just as suddenly funneled down from the sky as dirt, soil, rocks, and boulders suddenly plummeted downward and exploded with the force of a hundred cannon shells onto the Germans. The earth rose up suddenly, spearing towards the heavens even as the rocks and soil spinning above plummeted earthward like a pile driver. The air was filled with the scream of the wind, the crashing, grinding of stones and Welker quickly shepherded his men back across the wheat-field with its harvest of dead and dying. When they were once again safe behind the trenches, and the wounded with the hospital staff, Welker looked back toward the wheat-field and the forest verge, and the utter devastation that it had become. Beyond the dead, and just at the edge of the grey-green woods, everything was flattened and pounded into powder, the field, and the near forest line were a blur of grey from the dust of the rocks that had collided and powdered the area, painting the ground in monochrome; and beneath the grey dust were the dead Germans, their bodies reduced to splattered pulp on the already blood-soaked soil. But there was no sign of Private Plunkett.

Halley's eyes opened gritty and gluey and totally out of focus. For some reason he could not make out his surroundings, whether he was lying on the ground looking at the base of a tree or looking up at the sky. He tried raising one hand to wipe at his eyes and found pain; pain in his back, his neck, his shoulders and … suddenly he was falling, his back scraping hard against something and he plummeted to the ground, landing hard in the soil and forest detritus piled beneath the shattered oak he had been lying in. 

When he awoke again it was to a face full of moist dirt and a realization that he had survived yet again. Puzzled but wary of causing more pain, he wiggled the fingers of one hand, and then flexed the toes of his feet. Yep, they still moved, but what about the other hand? Shifting slightly brought intense shooting agony to his right shoulder and he found his hand, bent and broken beneath his body. He had fallen from a shattered oak, and landed on his hand and he wondered how the hell he had gotten there in the first place. With a sigh, he rolled off the injured hand, a sharp intake of breath making him grit his teeth. 

"Oh God damn," he swore softly. His fingers were curled in on themselves and stained purple and red with bruising and swelling. One finger-bone was poking out of his index finger and his wrist was cocked at an odd angle. "You stupid son-of-bitch," he muttered.

With a grunt he sat up to better inspect not only his hand but his surroundings. A quick glance told him he was no longer anywhere near the forest edge. He was surrounded by old growth oaks and evergreens and the forest floor was thick with moist green and rusty leaves blown from the trees. He looked up to see that the oak he had fallen from was broken as well, its limbs shattered and scattered around him.

'Musta done that myself,' he thought and shook his head. He scanned the nearby forest and listened for long seconds but could not hear any movement of soldiers. 'Well I guess I blew myself away as well,' his thought with a twisted smile, then groaned with the movement caused his hand to throb more. 'I gotta heal this mess before I go anywhere.'

He gently brushed the dirt from around his hand and inspected the fractured finger. He'd have to pull it straight to heal it and he really didn't want to do that; the injury was bad enough that he knew he might pass out from the pain and he still had the wrist.

'Damn I wish I had paid attention when Alice was setting that broken bone of Yuri's,' he thought as he gritted his teeth in preparation to straightening the finger. He remembered Yuri being slammed into the stone wall of the Nemeton Basement and hearing the loud crack as his arm was broken. Alice had run to him, throwing her Gospel spell around him for protection even as she slid to the floor and worked on his arm. Halley had been busy defending them against the attack of Albert Simon, once he had merged with his demon Amon, and so hadn't paid as much attention as he wanted to. Now he was wishing he'd had eyes in the back of his head.

"Leave it to me to think of Yuri at a time like this," he muttered to himself and then pulled on the finger. Even through grinding teeth his shout of pain was loud, echoing in the woods. His vision grew fuzzy and he slid down to the ground, his forehead resting against the forest floor.

After a few minutes he blinked, his eyes back into focus and stared at the blue blur in front of him. He blinked again and turned, moving away from whatever was hovering over him and cracked his head on something equally hard.

"God damn!" a woman's voice said and Halley rubbed his eyes before they came into focus on a blue-green French army uniform gracing a buxom female body. The jacket was open to show the green shirt half unbuttoned and tied in a knot at the waist. He followed the curving breasts up to the white neck and the squinting blue eyes that stared at him.

"M-Margarete?" he asked, surprised.

"Last time I looked," Margarete Zelle said and rubbed her chin. "Your head is almost as hard as Yuri's, you know that?"

Halley grinned in spite of the pain. "Woman, you are a sight for sore eyes," he said and then laughed.

Margarete knelt beside him and reached out for his injured hand. "What did you do, fall on it?"

"As a matter of fact," Halley said and indicated the tree with his chin. 

Margarete spared the offending oak a glance before inspecting Halley's fingers. "I won't ask how you got up there, especially as there are no German or French soldiers within 5 miles of this spot."

Halley chuckled softly and watched as Margarete used her very limited healing to clear up the little injuries to the hand. His own skills would be needed to repair the breaks but this at least gave him a minute to rally his strength.

"I kinda blew them away," he offered as the skin on his hand slowly pinked as the bruises healed and the swelling receded. 

Margarete looked at his fatigues and her eyes caught at the eagle emblem on the shoulder. "Americans?" 

Halley nodded. "You ready for me to do the hard stuff?"

Margarete looked back down at his hand, less bloody but no less injured. The finger was still bent at an odd angle and so too the wrist but Halley would be able to heal them with a minutes concentrated effort. 

"Go for it, Halley," she said and Halley closed his eyes with a sigh, focusing his concentration on his hand. He visualized the bones, their intricate functions beyond his own limited education, and the muscles and sinews that bound them together and he sent his power into his hand, a trickle of green energy flowing down his arm and over and through his hand and into his curved fingers. The bones of the finger straightened, the joints knitting together with their proper sinews while his wrist popped into its normal position; he wiggled the fingers and flexed them, making sure the healing was complete before releasing his mind to relax and let the energies flow back into his well-spring, that place in heart and mind that held his magic. 

"Not bad Halley. You always were good at that," Margarete offered and then sat down, pulling her knees up to her chin with her arms and resting her head for a moment. 

"You all right, Maggie?" Halley asked, even as he checked himself over for additional bruises.

"Yeah, just tired, kiddo," the blonde woman said. "I've been working these past weeks carrying intel for the Armies. But I had no idea you were here."

"Oh, you've been working for the French army. You the one brought us the information on the German placements? You blew this one girlie," Halley said with a grin. He lay down and closed his eyes, letting the silence replenish his soul, then "We lost a lot of men today, Margarete. Too damn many."

"Sorry, kid. Not my doing. I've been following the German advance, and wondering where they'd make their move. I had no idea they were going to spring this one. But I did meet the Americans about an hour ago, south of here. Let them know the fortifications. Officer named Harbord was in charge. He one of yours?"

"Yup," Halley said and sat up. "My Captain. Good to know he's alive. We got shot to fucking shi- what?" Halley looked at Margarete as she eyed him intently.

"You've developed a dirty mouth," she said.

"Did not," Halley said.

"Did too. Americans; leave it to them to corrupt a proper Englishman," Margarete said then broke into a smile. "It is good to see a friendly face, Halley. Where do you need to go?"

"Back to my unit; 2nd Division Marine Corps. We were storming the woods and met the enemy," Halley said then chuckled. "I need to get back."

"You, a soldier," Margarete laughed as she stood, brushing the dirt from her uniform. "I never would have thought it."

"Well, it seemed the right thing to do at the time," Halley said standing as well. "But I'm more medic than soldier."

"Why'd you come?" she asked and then indicated he should join her as she walked away from the shattered oak and deeper into the woods.

"To kill Germans."

"That's simplistic."

"You got a better idea?"

"Saving the world for humanity has a nice ring to it," Margarete offered with a chuckle.

"Yeah," Halley responded with a grin. "But that job's been taken by Yuri."

"You seen him at all, Hal?" she asked.

"Nope. Where we going?"

"I've got a bike just around the bend here," she said and pointed out a small grey and brown cycle lying amongst the leaves of the forest. "It's small but will hold both of us. I can get you back to your lines okay?"

Halley nodded. "Never thought I'd have you as my guardian angel," he said.

Margarete laughed her voice more a throaty chuckle as she bent to lift the bike and climb aboard.

With a kick the little bike, a British made Triumph, sputtered to life and Halley climbed on behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Hang on Hal," she said and throttled the little bike into high gear, taking off with a fury of leaves and dirt spattering behind her.

The ride back was uneventful; Margarete maneuvering the cycle through breaks in the trees and down and then back up small gullies. She had ridden it into the center of the wood and dropped it when she heard the crash as Halley had fallen from the tree, never expecting to find anyone. Now she kept the bike upright with her legs on the side pegs, Halley's weight leaning on her from behind and silently offering up a prayer to her guardian angel that they could get back through Belleau Woods to the waiting troops at Chateau Thierry.

Halley leaned into Margarete's back, his arms tucked firmly beneath her ribcage and his face turned to rest one cheek on her shoulder. He closed his eyes to the wind of their passing and felt the thrum of the cycle's motor in Margarete's back, and in his legs. He surprised himself with a sudden realization that he hadn't been this close to a woman since his mother, and she didn't count. Beneath the army jacket she felt warm, and pleasingly soft and Halley mentally kicked himself for even beginning to think such thoughts. This is Margarete, for crying out loud, he chided himself. 

'She's older than you! She's bigger than you, still ~' and he pictured her standing next to him even as the bike slanted into a turn and he tightened his grip, one hand now pressed against her stomach. 'Hell even standing next to each other she'd tower over me,' he thought and built his mental image with him standing, looking at Margarete in her blue skirt and coat. He'd stood next to her so often before he knew the outfit intimately. A short blue skirt, tight, very tight. Above that a bustier in black with lacings; above that two firm round ~ 'Hell I am not going there; I am NOT going there,' and he shook his head trying to dislodge the image of a very sexy Margarete even as the bike thrummed between his legs.

"You all right back there, Hal?" Margarete asked as she maneuvered the motorcycle down an embankment to the roadway and then slewing slightly, brought it around to speed ahead toward the American lines.

"Yeah, Maggie, I'm fine."

"Okay, kiddo. Just hang on for a few more miles."

"Yeah sure, a few more friggin' miles," he muttered. 'I am so dead if she finds out what I'm thinking,' he berated himself. 'I have no business thinkin' these thoughts about Maggie. Now _Yuri_ might think these thoughts,' and he remembered a time when Yuri had done more than think them to Miss Ma'am and gotten a fist where it hurt the most. Yuri hadn't dared to tell Alice about it, she having made a quick trip to Rouen and Yuri deciding he needed to be occupied while she was gone. Halley hadn't warned him he was gonna get burned; he just sat back and watched the fireworks – Yuri never did understand when to back off and as a consequence, he sat funny for a few hours. Halley didn't want a repeat performance of Margarete's stiff right arm.

After fifteen minutes of riding Margarete took a quick turn to the left and looped down a dirt track leading to the west of Chateau Thierry; the little town had seen better days, and the bombs and guns had done heavy damage to the homes and businesses. In the distance, on a hill above the forest the remains of the chateau itself stared open-eyed onto the village and woods, the blown glass from the blank-eyed windows and shattered eves testimony to the repeated battles convened within the town's borders. Margarete pulled up next to an army truck with a distinctive red cross painted on its side, showing that the nurses had arrived. 

"Here ya go, Halley," Margarete said even as she turned off the motor and slid off the cycle. Halley stretched and joined her, swatting at his filthy trousers before looking up to see ice blue eyes staring directly at him. 

'We're the same height?' he wondered for a moment then smiled. "Thanks for the lift, Maggie. Can I do anything for you before you head out?"

"Nah, I want to see the commander anyway, and getting you here was a bonus. Take care Halley, and watch out for those killer attack oaks next time."

Halley grinned and watched with just a little smirk as the lovely spy walked away, his mind reeling just a little at the womanly curves beneath the army uniform. 

'Either she shrank or I got taller,' Halley mentally chuckled at himself. 'I never noticed.' He blinked several times before turning for the hospital and new orders. He'd be going out again he knew; he, like the other marines, was determined to push the German's back beyond the woods and take away their advantages. 

_V_

The thunder of explosions continued long into the night as Halley clutched the icy girder with his knees and crammed his gloved hands over his ears. The chatter of machine guns, the detonations of munitions and gas canisters still pounded into his head and Halley wanted nothing else but for it all to stop. The Canadian, British and American forces were hammering the Russian army whose divisions occupied Lower Toulgas and surrounded Upper Toulgas; any Russian forces within gunshot, within cannon range, were a target and the message was loud and deadly. This was worse than France, this was hell and he could do nothing to make it stop except scream in his own mind. It would be an hour before the bombardment ceased, an hour before Halley would realize that the screams he was hearing were his own, his throat raw, his muscles cramped from the grip he held on the girder. He looked up into the night and saw only darkness. All lights were darkened and he could not see any shadows moving. 

Slowly he climbed to his feet and inched his way across the girder, the next break in the girder coming only a few feet in front of him. In the dark he could not see the break, could not see where to jump to. He stood puzzled for a moment then sighed. He reached down within himself for the power of his magic, the power that was his by blood and training. He grasped his element, the wind, and spun it from his gloved hands, wrapping it around him like a ribbon and using it to carry him from the girder and out over the Dvina River and to the northern shore lost in the darkness.

He landed with little grace, letting go the wind a foot above the ground, nearly falling on his face on the uneven footing. He clambered up the embankment and rolled over the top, his eyes piercing the darkness, his ears listening. But there was only a deepening silence; where were the sounds of the soldiers, their voices, and their machinery? Where were the shouts of victory? Halley took half a dozen steps forward and tripped, falling onto something soft and moist and cooling in the night air. He had found the soldiers.

Halley waited until dawn, lying next to the cooling shell of a corpse. Once the grey light began to pearl the sky he could make out the bodies in the streets; uniforms in green, dark grey, brown; some with British or American emblems, most with Russian. Halley climbed to his feet, looking down at the corpse he'd lain against; Russian red spattered with blood, the body's head missing. He scanned the bodies nearby and saw more dismembered corpses, their limbs broken, scattered and blood covering everything in a blanket of red. Halley bent over and retched, his stomach spewing forth its meager contents as tears formed in his eyes. 

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Halley continued walking amongst the dead. He lifted a few, saw faces he didn't know, some Russian, some American. He was approaching the Canadian line when he saw a face he knew. Quickly he ran to the body, pushing it over to get a better look. Bullet holes riddled the uniform, piercing the flesh beneath, the blood now soaked in and nearly frozen in the cold. The face was spattered with blood as well and Halley rubbed it with his gloved hand, cleaning off the brows and lashes to reveal deeply brown eyes, now unseeing. The fur hat fell away, revealing her familiar tresses and Halley choked back a cry, more tears sliding down unbidden at the sight of Ileana Petrovna's corpse. He knelt beside her cold body and let the tears flow, frustrated anger welling up inside on a level he'd never experienced before. His gut began churning with the power of his magic. He felt it growing rapidly, building on his anger, his heart-sickness over all the killing, the death, and this senseless slaughter.

'I hate this,' he thought, 'There's no reason for this. They did nothing to deserve this. What the fucking hell are we doing here? What the fucking hell …' he felt his mind beginning to unravel and let it, not caring that he was getting angrier and angrier with each breath. In his hands he held Ileana's cold and lifeless body, her head lolling to the side and he could only see that; only see her chilled body, the body of the man next to her, the bodies of the Russians lying all around him, the bodies of the German's he'd blown up at Belleau Wood, and the platoon full of dead and dying he'd tried to save and failed to at that same wood the next two days. His glee at joining the marines, his joy at killing German's, his desire to kill and avenge and hate suddenly blossomed into something else. 

He could hear Margarete's distinctive voice, _"Saving the world for humanity has a nice ring to it."_ This was not saving the world. This was killing the world. How could he think this was his path? Where had it gone wrong? Anger burst in his gut like a fire bomb, exploding up through his senses until he was burning with its flame, his conscience no longer in control, his mind and body both agreeing that this killing would stop, that this death would be revenged.

Suddenly Halley screamed, his already raw throat shattering and shredding, raising like an ululation before fading with the rise of his power. Ileana Petrovna's cold corpse fell away from his hands, his body slowly rising, standing, floating above the ground, his hands and legs splayed at the power within him, the power he drew from his own wellspring and that of nature itself, rising like a snake from the ground and through his body, rising and filling and suddenly exploding out of him in a wave of darkness. A focus point of energy formed away from his floating body, a pinpoint of energy that turned and twisted on itself and in the next instant everything on the street, every body whether Russian or British or American, every gun, every spent shell, rose into the air and floated toward the black spinning point. Behind him gun emplacements tore from their brackets, machine guns and incendiary canisters plummeted into the spinning maelstrom. And further behind him, voices shouted, cries of panic rose on notes of terror as living soldiers, torn from their hiding places, flew toward the energy point, their bodies shrinking and compressing with the weapons, with the corpses with every living and dead thing in Upper Toulgas until they and all they had done vanished into Halley's Black Hole.

Everything was white. Halley opened his eyes to white and he blinked to clear his vision. His eyes were blurry and he raised one hand to try wiping them only to find he was restrained.

'What?'

"Ah, you're awake; good," a vaguely familiar voice said and he could hear the approaching footsteps on a stone floor. Gentle fingers removed a gauze bandage from his eyes and his blurry vision resolved into a blurry nurse.

"Where~?" he started to ask but the nurse put a finger to his lips effectively shushing him. She then carefully pulled back the blanket covering him and checked his wounds, probing a little too deeply on one sore that had Halley beginning to sweat.

"You shouldn't have done that, Private. All that energy wasted. You've accomplished nothing with your abuse of power," the nurse said softly and Halley blinked a few times to clear his vision. The nurse was tall, thin, and beautiful with brown hair and blue eyes. That was unusual and Halley found himself watching the blue of her eyes as they focused and changed with each glance or blink or motion. Her eyes were sharp, inquisitive, amusing and sensual. 

"Who~?" he began and again a long finger touched his lips. 

"No speaking, Private. Orders," she said and her lips parted more in a smile that revealed pearl white teeth. Her lips were full, and the curve of those lips reminded him of someone while her face, her face reminded him of Ileana. Halley blinked again and watched as the nurse inspected the rest of his bandaging, pulling the blanket down past his feet and he realized as she did so, that he was restrained by arm and leg straps and he was also naked as a jaybird. He felt a blush beginning in his crotch, climbing quickly over his chest and up past his neck to blossom a full redness in his face.

The nurse chuckled softly at Halley's discomfort and shook her head, her soft brown hair pulled back into a ponytail swinging beneath her nurse's cap. 

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Private," she said and then pulled on the straps releasing his legs. "Everything seems to be in working order, just don't move around too quickly, you might pull out stitches."

"How did..." he started to ask, then cringed when the nurse turned sharp eyes onto him; he sighed instead, waiting with patience he didn't know he had. Finally, she was finished with her inspection of his bandages and moved up to his arms, releasing both from the straps. "Can I talk now?" Halley asked quickly, before he could be shushed again.

The nurse smiled and flipped his blanket back up to cover his nakedness. 

"Thanks," he said and watched her leave the white hospital room. 

He remained quiet and unmoving for a long time, his heart beat counting the seconds until someone else would come in. The quiet of the room and the coolness lulled him slowly to sleep. When he awakened again, it was much darker in the room and he could feel someone touching him. He opened his eyes to blurry vision again and realized that, whatever was happening, he was uncovered and the nurse...

"What...?" he began and stopped when he felt something warm and moist touching him, gently bathing his naked body. He blinked again and looked down to see the nurse on her knees at the side of the bed, her head over him and she was...

"What the hell..."

The nurse stopped and looked up at Halley, her blue eyes glowing with an intensity that reminded him of Margarete. She smiled, licking her lips and then, with one hand, raised his flaccid member, rubbing it with her hand before turning back to put her mouth around him.

Halley moaned, his knees jerking up and he wanted to reach out and grab the nurse, grab anything so instead he grabbed the sheets, twisting his hands into the linen and curling his toes. What she was doing he had never experienced before, hell he'd never been with a woman before. He knew from what the other soldiers said, but this was still new to him. He felt her mouth as it slid up and down his member, the moisture of her mouth, the heat of her breath all adding to the buildup he was feeling in his crotch. He wanted to tell her to stop, this wasn't right, but his voice came out in a moan when he tried to speak.

The nurse didn't let up on her ministrations, but she paused for a moment and rising, kicked off her shoes, quickly unbuttoning her lab-coat and tossing it aside. Halley was watching as she disrobed, realizing she was going to strip completely. 

'I've died and gone to heaven,' he thought, 'there's no other explanation.'

The blouse came off one shoulder at a time, sliding down the long white arms to land on the floor. Next, was her belt and then the skirt skirt, the long folds of the white material sliding down her limbs and nestling around her feet like a cloud. Halley's eyes watched hungrily as the clothing slowly came off, and his eyes then roved up her legs until they got to...

"You're naked," he said stupidly when he realized she wore neither stockings nor small clothes.

The nurse laughed huskily and removed her cap from her head, pulling free the ponytail that released her long blonde hair to brush her shoulders. Halley stared wide-eyed at the nurse, his mouth open in confusion and awe as Margarete slid onto the bed, covering him with her body. She pressed her breasts onto his chest and his hands instantly unwrapped from the sheets to enwrap her instead, one hand touching the smooth white skin of her back while the other ran fingers through her hair. She opened her legs straddling him and he could feel her own female warmth against him, his own erection growing as his eyes inhaled the beauty that was Margarete, his nose breathing her scent, a musky perfume that only made her feminine smells that much richer.

"Maggie," he tried to say but she bent forward putting her mouth over his, her lips inviting, her tongue teasing as it flicked out, licking his lips, and then thrust between his teeth to battle his surprised tongue. Halley could feel his heart suddenly beat faster, and one of his hands made it down to her round full bottom, squeezing the cheek in his hand before sending a finger sliding between the cheeks to explore. 

Margarete took the initiative, pushing up from him and sliding down over his legs. She massaged him with her hands, firming and caressing him. Then with one hand, she began on herself, stroking with her palm the area Halley was most curious about. 

Halley's fists were once again bunched in the sheets, his hips bucking to meet Margarete as she moved back and forth over him, her movements seductive and elevating. She brought her hands up to caress her own breasts, pinching the nipples to sharp little peaks before moving them down her body in sure swift strokes that imitated her own body's motions. Halley felt a fire in his loins building and the need to be in her, to push and thrust into the woman above him took over his mind, his own hips rising and falling to meet Margarete. 

In a dance of motion, Halley and Margarete came together, and Halley felt not only his power as a man, but as a magic user. Slowly, ever so slowly, rising with his own excitement, his body rose above the bed, carrying Margarete with him. Together they blended their power and their passion and then, in a final frenzied handful of minutes, it was over. Halley felt the explosion of his orgasm and his mind blanked, much like when he used his most powerful magicks, and when he felt the last thrust, he watched as Margarete shuddered.

They slowly descended to the bed, and Margarete bent down and offered her breasts to his hands and lips, her own stroking down his forehead, kissing gently each eyelid before meeting his lips with a warm and friendly tongue.

"All better?" she asked softly as she pulled away.

"Uh-huh," Halley managed, a happy smile creeping over his face even as Margarete climbed off him and pulled the blanket over his body. 

Halley was cold, his body felt like ice and he couldn't feel his feet. He felt tremendously tired and a small part of him wondered why he was so tired. Hadn't he just been in bed with ... He felt a sliver of warmth in his pants and tried to smile with the memory, but his mouth hurt; his face hurt... hell, his whole body hurt. What the hell happened to him? 

Slowly he shifted and tried to raise one arm, but found he was held down; something heavy was pressing down on him and he could not move. One eyelid slid open, trying to see where he was only to be covered by a curtain of cold blurry white. 

'Am I buried alive?' he thought. 'What exactly did I do?'

The last images of his angry rampage trickled into his mind, his anger and frustration and pent up emotions bursting free as the lifeless body of the Russian woman, Ileana Petrovna, slid from his cold hands. The Russian soldiers who had tried to move up on the American infantry and the British soldiers had met an explosive and bloody end. The efficiency of the British artillerymen, with skills honed on the Western Front, scythed through the oncoming troops like a hot knife through butter. Death was the only answer; and the grim reaper had his toll in blood that day. And Halley, his own mind reeling from the violence of the bombardment, and from the soldiers under his care dying, and the soldiers who were only defending their country being slaughtered - Halley could not remember ever being that angry.

He remembered the Black Hole of his magic, not the final but definitely the worst of his magical achievements, used only when in dire need, being used to sweep aside the dead, the nearly dead and the living, and he felt his gorge rising. Desperately he pushed at whatever was pinning him, shoving at the cold and the weight until something broke above him and the white blur slid down on him in a cascade of icy snow. 

Painfully Halley crawled from the mound of snow and debris that had buried him, his body one giant ache, his head pounding and his ears ringing with the sound of his own breathing. He climbed onto a lone girder then up to a tangle of wood and metal before finally climbing out onto the mound that had once been Upper Toulgas; all around him lay devastation. The homes and businesses that had once graced the Northern shore of the Dvina were now gone and in their stead was a crater. A deep, black, lifeless crater that culminated in a pile of debris in its center, the very pile that buried the heart of town in a pit and then had piled the remaining debris on top, the very pile that Halley had just climbed out of. Standing on top of the debris and looking up at the rim of the crater, Halley felt his own heart sink to his feet. His head was swimming and he noticed he was covered in cuts, slashes, and rips where the flying material had whirled past him, slicing him as it did so and he felt faint. Before he could decide his next move his knees buckled under him and he fell, his body skidding down the mountain of trash to lie unconscious at its base.

Halley didn't remember much after he awoke. He was lying on his back in a cot, and he could feel the bunch of the springs beneath him and the scratchiness of the blanket covering him. He also felt warm, truly warm for the first time in weeks. There was a susurration of voices beyond him, soft and not male, and he slowly pried open one eyelid to check his surroundings. It was dark, and only a faint yellow glow game from what was a doorway into a corridor beyond. He could see the floor and then the speakers stepped into his vision; two nurses in their white uniforms. He croaked out a query, and one of them turned toward him, her look of sternness changed to surprise.

"You're awake," she said softly as she approached. One firm hand took his wrist and checked his pulse, then brushed his forehead, checking for temperature. "How are you feeling, Private?"

"Confused," Halley said and looked around the darkened ward. "Where am I?"

"You are in the field hospital in Murmansk. Do you remember what happened? Where you were?"

Halley frowned slightly. "Why, do you think I would forget?"

The nurse moved aside and brought up a small stool. After she sat and stared at him in the dim light from the corridor, she smiled. "Do you know your name?" she asked.

"Halley Plunkett, Private, United States Marine Corps."

"Okay, do you remember what happened to get you here?" she pursued.

Halley frowned. "Yes. I was in Toulgas, at the field hospital. I went for help; the Doctor and the patients were stranded and the Russians surrounded us. I was headed for Upper Toulgas to get help from Captain Boyd or …" he stopped as he realized he had better not mention his blown temper. "There was a big battle; the guns were firing and lots of shooting; I was on the bridge, trying to get across. Don't know what happened after that," he said.

The nurse nodded. "Neither does anyone else, so that just proves you were there. That's good though. You'll have to be debriefed, but for now, just rest." She stood to go but Halley called her back. 

"How did I…"

"You were found unconscious in the center of a crater. Must have fallen and hit your head; you've been in a coma for about a week."

Halley was silent as the nurse turned to go. 'They have no idea that was me,' he thought. 'I am God damned lucky.' He turned onto his side and stared at the cot next to him; another soldier was there, sleeping, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comfort to Halley. He watched as the soldier's blanket rose and fell, rose and fell and with each breath Halley offered a prayer for the soldiers he'd killed, and the ones who had already died and wondered what kind of story he could tell the brass that wouldn't get him court-martialed and shot.

Over the next few months, Halley continued his medic work, going back out with the troops and assisting wherever he was needed. He had faced his Board of Review and told them a bald faced lie and they believed him. He felt that, for his penance, he should take better care at not using his powers just because he was angry. He served the 8th Infantry's field hospital, occasionally treating a veteran of Toulgas. These he asked regarding Doctor Wilson but none had word; this he added to his debt owed, saying nothing, but treating wounds, sickness, and the misery of disappointment. None of the soldiers of the 8th had any desire to continue this wasted effort on behalf of a government that was effectively dead. With the murder of Tsar Nicholas and his family, there were few Russian nobles willing or able to take the reigns of government and no one of the soldiers, let alone their commanders, believed they should be there anymore. Disaffection grew.

In mid summer, Halley and his medical crew were in Yernetsk, serving the British and American forces when word came in of casualties coming from Topska. The British Naval forces had engaged the Bolsheviks and casualties and injuries, despite the precautions, had been great. Halley stood his post just past triage and took those cases he could, leaving the surgery for the doctors. Halley could perform minor operations, but was better at simply healing or repairing and, per instructions from his superiors, was not to perform any 'magical miracles that modern medicine could not perform'. Toward the end of the day he got a bleeder, a soldier so shot up that there was little anyone could do. Halley was about to tell the triage team to put him aside when he noticed the man's face: it was Doctor Wilson. 

Halley looked up and spotted a nurse, signaled her to join him and pressed the bandages into her hands.

"Try to pack the bleeding, it won't stop but try to keep it from increasing," he told her. The nurse complied and deftly placed gauze packing on several deep wounds, pressing down with her hands. Halley watched her for a moment, concentrating on her hands as he brought his own magicks into focus. The nurse's sure hands were pressing on the major wound to the chest, blood seeping out even as her sure fingers pressed down and Halley felt the wellspring of his magic flow upward, racing down his arms to his hands and he cupped them over Wilson's chest, mere inches from the pale flesh. Green and white energies blossomed in his fingers, raining down onto the wounded man, penetrating the scared and wounded flesh, pushing out the bullets, the metal shrapnel that was deeply embedded in the muscles and tissues; flooding the flesh and weaving it together, capillaries joining with strengthened nodes, new blood vessels replacing those shredded by manmade weapons. Deeper the healing energy flowed, knitting bones and muscles, adding strength with the supple new tissues. Finally, the flow of energies ebbed, trickling to a mere sparkle before stopping and Halley leaned wearily on the table.

"You do good work, Doctor Plunkett," the nurse said and deftly removed the blood-soaked bandaging. 

"I'm not a doctor," Halley stated slowly, fatigue in his voice, but then the voice registered in his tired mind and he looked up at the nurse, her blond hair tucked neatly within a net, a prim white cap on top and, looking out at him from a familiar face, two intensely blue eyes. "Maggie?"

"Shhh, that's Nurse Margarete," the spy said with a grin.

Halley stared at Margarete, his jaw dropping and he felt a distinctive stirring where he least expected it.

"What – what are you doing here?" he asked.

"Just doing my bit for the war effort," Margarete said and wiped blood from her hands. Looking around she saw that the hospital was well in hand. "Anything else, _Doctor_ Halley?" she asked with the inevitable grin.

Halley shook his head, still trying to gather his thoughts, realizing that the woman he'd dreamed about, the woman who had saved his neck once in France and again, by wishful thinking in Upper Toulgas, was standing not three feet from him. He was suddenly very glad the uniform trousers were baggy.

"Um, Maggie, when we're done I'd like a chance to buy you dinner," he said with a nod toward the mess, "and maybe talk," he added, trying not to look nervous.

"Fine, Halley. I have a proposition for you as well," she said and turned to leave the operating room. Halley watched as the white uniform swished and swayed out of the hospital and he felt himself standing erect and wondered if he could take a cold shower any time soon.

'I have got to get myself together,' he thought and wondered when he had become like Yuri.

Dinner that night was with a hundred other men and woman, packed into the hospital mess and trying to ingest the poor excuse for food that was the army rations. They were due to return to Murmansk by the end of summer, but had yet to do so with the local fighting. Halley sat swirling his soup with the spoon, trying to think of something to say, anything to say, that wouldn't be heard above the noisy diners or misunderstood by Margarete. Finally, the spy solved the problem for him by indicating they should go outside.

The hospital was set up on the northern part of Yernetsk, barely a thousand yards from the dock and the waiting hospital ship, _Garth__Castle_. At anchor, the medical ship was vulnerable to attacks, and so heavily armed marines patrolled the dock and gun ships were posted in the Dvina. Halley watched as the marines walked their post, waiting for inspiration to get him out of trouble with his body, but nothing came to mind. He kept seeing Nurse Margarete, her warm and friendly smile as she took him into her mouth, as she climbed onto him, and slid his firm and straining erection into her turgid flesh and rode him…

"Halley, are you all right? You're awfully quiet," Margarete said out of the darkness and Halley jumped, his thoughts catching him out as surely as if his mother had caught him with his hand in a cookie jar.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine, Margarete. Just thinkin' is all," he said. Thinking too much he thought and shrugged his shoulders, surreptitiously tugging on his belt to adjust his trousers. "You, ah, you said you had something for me?" 

"Ah-haha, yes, a proposition," Margarete said with a laugh and her eyes were dancing blue stars in a beautiful face. Halley shook himself, wishing he could stop thinking of her that way. She's older than me for god's sake he thought, and realized that the age difference was only a difference if he wanted it that way, or if she did. 

"Uh, Maggie, you uh, you ever have a boyfriend?" he blurted out. "I mean, did you ever, uh…" Halley quickly realized he'd spoken without thinking, his mind governed by what was in his pants for the first time in his life. Suddenly he understood how Yuri felt; and why Yuri often put his foot in his mouth. Yeah, it's a real strong feeling down there, he thought. 

Margarete turned to stare at Halley as they walked toward the dock. "Is something on your mind, Hal? You're acting kind of strange, even for you," Margarete said and softened it with a smile.

"Yeah," Halley responded with a grin, pulling on the back of his neck and shrugging at the same time. "I don't know what the hell got into me, sorry."

"All right then. What I wanted to know, is would you like to travel with me? I've got a job lined up and I could really use some expert magical help. I usually work alone you know, Ms. Spy Genius has never needed a partner, but this time, I think magic might come in handy." Margarete was gazing out at the medical ship as she spoke.

"Where you headed?" Halley asked. He touched her elbow and indicated they should turn at the dock, walking up the quay and past the marines. 

"Well I can't say right now, you understand Hal, not until I know if you're in or not. But I can say, east."

"Russia? China? Give me a clue?"

Margarete shook her head and the netting slid lower on her thick blond hair. "Nope, not until you give me your answer."

Halley stopped, turning to face the beautiful spy in the starlit night. "You want an answer but I can't know where I'm going? That's stupid," he said and reached up to take the netting from her hair, lingering just a moment to feel the softness of her blond tresses. "It's not holding very well, is it?" he said and handed her the fragile net. "I know how it feels," this last said quickly and nearly under his breath.

Margarete looked surprised at the young man even as she took the net and stuffed it in her pocket. She watched him as best she could in the dim light of the dock, his boyish features filling out and the peach fuzz on his face actually starting to look more like a man's beard. 

'My God,' Margarete thought, 'he's grown up.'

"Halley, is there something you want to say; something you are having trouble saying?" she ventured.

Halley's blush showed even in the ship's lights.

'He's more like Yuri than I had ever thought,' Margarete thought with a grin. She reached out and draped her arm over his broad shoulders, realizing that she had to reach up somewhat to do so. 'He's grown up right in front of me.' 

"Come on kiddo, let's go someplace nice and quiet and," she hesitated a moment, letting him hear what she was saying, "private."

Halley blushed even more and shook his head. "N-no, that's all right, Maggie. I-I don't think that would be a good idea right now. But I'll take a rain check on it."

"You sure you can last that long?"

Halley chuckled. "I don't know. But we'll be together for a while, traveling and all. Things happen."

Margarete grinned and, removing her hand from his shoulders, swatted him on the derriere. "Good for you. You pack your kit, we head out for China in the morning."

"China?"

"Yup. I'll see you then," and Margarete turned and strode back down the dock, her white nurse's uniform looking way too sexy to Halley. 

'I have got to get control of this,' he thought and adjusted his trousers again. 

Halley sat at mess and wrote a letter. The majority of staff had gone back to barracks, but he wanted some quiet time before facing the monsters of the 8th Infantry and their medical staff. A rowdier bunch of hooligans he had not seen since leaving France, and he liked these men; but peace and quiet was not on their minds, usually. Especially today. Word had come down even as he returned to the hospital to gather his things, that the AEF and BEF[1] were withdrawing from Archangel; the British and American soldiers were going home. Celebrations could be heard even from the mess and Halley knew that a few would be fighting hangovers in the morning. But Halley was fighting a different kind of battle, a battle of words. He was writing a letter home.

He pressed the crinkled yellow paper flat against the wooden table and rolled the pencil in his fingers. He was trying to write and he just didn't know how; how would he tell his family all he'd done? He couldn't; the Army would read it and know. He wanted to tell them about his time in France too, but didn't know where to start. Finally he put the pencil to paper and began to put words down, whatever came to his mind. 

_Dear Chris, Sharon and Joshua_

_ If you're wonderin' what happened to me, well you can stop now. Mom and me went to __America__, and I met my dad. But it didn't work out. I ran away from mom and dad in __Chicago__ and went to __New York__ and then to __France__ when the American's joined the war. From there I got sent to __Russia__; yeah, Yuri's old stompin' grounds. He'da hated it here. Colder than fuckin' shit! But anyway, I'm all done with that now and they're shippin' out the regulars to their homes. But I'm not American so I can go where I want; been thinking of going on East. I'd like to see what Yuri saw before he came to __England__, ya know? I'm okay, so you don't need to worry. I'll be traveling for a while an' I'll be in good company, so don't worry. If you see mom, tell her – tell her I love her and miss her and that I'm fine._

Halley stopped and read the missive then folded it up and stuffed it into an envelope, scrawled Chris's address on the front and took it to the mail tent. No sense holding onto it in case something else comes up, he thought. 'Besides I gotta get my gear.' Halley's mind was spinning as he sprinted back to the barracks and his kit.

Early morning found Halley Plunkett and Margarete Zelle heading southeast toward Moscow; wearing cast off Bolshevik uniforms, they blended in with the natives.

"We'll rendezvous with Kolchak in the east, Hal. And when that's done, we move on to China. I've got a surprise in store for you there."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Oh, nothing; you'll just have to be patient. But I guarantee it'll be a blast."

Walking beside the blonde spy, Halley shook his head and grinned. 

"I'll just bet," he said.

* * *

[1] American Expeditionary Force and British Expeditionary Force, respectively. 


End file.
